


What A Tale My Thoughts Could Tell

by Adarian



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adarian/pseuds/Adarian
Summary: Mages particularly talented in healing arts can sometimes get flashes of the memories of their patients. Adaar's ability to do so grows only stronger after receiving the Anchor. She reflects on how it affects her relationship with the Inner Circle, culminating in a dire moment when she attempts to save Blackwall's life, only for his own soul to betray how he really feels for her.Written for a kink-meme prompt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah, cleaning out the drafts time. I've got (potentially) two pieces for Femslash February and one (mostly) Gen thing to finish up. Otherwise if I write something, only ladies this February!

Adaar would always remember the exact moment it first happened to her. Adaar had been just past a decade old. A bird had crashed through the attic window, breaking its wing. She scooped it into her already large hands and tried to heal it, hoping to spare it some pain.

And then suddenly she was crashing through the glass, her skin cut and torn, panic flooding through her. She nearly dropped the poor thing but managed to cradle it still and bring it to her mother. Maryse took the creature from her and Adaar watched in amazement as the bird healed in her mother's hands. The little bird flew out through the open kitchen window without looking back.

Adaar started crying and Maryse hugged her.

"Dear heart, what's wrong?" Maryse asked.

Adaar told her what she had felt between sobs and Maryse rubbed her back. 

Maryse was quiet for a long time and finally said, "You connected with the Fade much younger than most mages. Perhaps I should not be surprised then to see your affinity with it. You must have been very scared."

Adaar nodded, still sniffling.

Maryse promised, "There is nothing to be afraid of. This will help you."

"How?" Adaar protested. 

"Do you think I remember where every nerve should be placed in the body? The exact timing one's stomach should churn or the ideal length of their fingernails?" 

Adaar felt sheepish. "Yes."

Maryse said, "I take that as a compliment, love, but that is not the case. It takes decades to learn the complicated nature of the body and science is not far advanced enough to know everything yet. Healers do not rely solely on our own memory or every patient would be in mortal danger. You are not just a potions brewer or an elder with folk wisdom. You are not treating a body solely as an exterior force. You are using the Fade to connect with something deeper. You are communing with the body, channeling its own power to heal itself."

Adaar frowned and Maryse continued, "Without any intervention, our hearts beat and our lungs take in air. This is because the body remembers, sweetheart. There are memories in our skin, our bones, our teeth. The ability to heal lays in the one you lay your hands on. You are persuading, insisting, coaxing. You ask the body, do you remember how you were formed, and it says yes. You give it the strength, your own force, to build it anew. For those truly talented in the art, this is a moment when their soul touches the soul's memory in its body. You can connect with an old scar or rendered tissues and feel the memory of the injury not only as a body but as a soul. Fear, anger, betrayal, love, loneliness. Sometimes it is a sensation, sometimes it is an image. It is more likely the worse the wound or the skill of the healer. You, my dear sweet girl, have an infinity for healing inherent in your power and I know you feel drawn to it. This is part of your calling."

"So I'm stuck with it?" Adaar asked.

Maryse smiled sadly. "It is a gift, even if it is one you should keep to yourself. It is a healer's duty to protect life without judgment or bias. If you see an image, keep it to your heart or let it go. It is not yours to share or burden another with. It is not always a bad thing. It will make you a stronger healer."

Maryse ruffled her hair and kissed the top of her head. "This is a good thing and I know your heart is strong enough to bare it. It will get easier. I promise."

***

Over the next twenty odd years, Adaar did have flashes from time to time and the ability grew stronger as she grew older. Receiving the Anchor, however, strengthened the ability immensely. The frequency, about one time in ten, did not change but the intensity sharpened. Vague feelings grew to clearer images and her own emotions tangled deeper into the memory. She had the strength to handle it but it was difficult at times.

She had the insight for only a few members of her party. Iron Bull was often injured in the line of duty and didn't trust many other mages to touch him. Most of his scars sang with stories of breaking beds in the throws of passion, one remarkable burn from an accidentally lit curtain, and other incidents of rougher sex leading to comical injuries. It was hard not to grin when she treated him, his body almost bragging to her about his conquests and of his feelings for Dorian even before Iron Bull realized it himself. 

When she treated a similar burn on Dorian, she was delighted to know the mage felt the same and it was near impossible to not say anything. 

Cullen she could only heal once. His pain was too vivid, his body littered with the memories of the Blight, of Kirkwall, of addiction. She nearly cried when her hand parted from him but she dared not explain why. Luckily he was infrequently in the field with them and the need to help him did not arise again.

Solas, who knew of the Fade and magic than most, refused to let Adaar touch him. She respected his autonomy but always felt that he had secrets that it was worth his life to keep. 

Varric on the other hand laid his own memories out like an open book. For his age, he had relatively few scars though his nose told almost as many stories as his novels did. Adaar always felt closest to him in those moments and though she had no proof of it, she always felt as if he understood what was happening and choosing as well to remain quiet. 

The women she gained vague knowledge from, but nothing strong. Vivienne always treated her own injuries, Sera was terrified of magic, and Cassandra's body only gave off a deep sense of determination. It didn't feel pain because Cassandra would not allow it to feel pain. It was admirable, even if Adaar worried that this strength would not always last. In many ways, Blackwall was the same way. It was as if they both had the mental equivalent of a leather strap in their mouth. Both unable to speak, but both able to bite through the pain. 

She had to admit as well that Blackwall's memories were potentially drowned out by how quickly her heart beat whenever she touched him. 

As Cole grew more human, he went more and more frequently to Adaar for healing. In his spirit like form, he had been so distant from the physical sensations of his body, but now that he could actually feel each scratch and cut, each felt like a mortal wound. 

Adaar was patient with him and treated each injury with great care. Most people were too young to remember the first times they were hurt, the memory and pain faded. But Cole felt everything all at once, so hyperaware that any little thing felt like agony. So Adaar healed each injury as careful as she would a broken arm or leg.

Despite this, his new quickly fading scars felt joyful. He was growing close with Sera, the two being the only ones around on the cusp of their twenties. A burn from pouring too much hot tea into his cup, usually flavoured with something a bit more illicit. A sting from one of her many bee friends. And her favourite, several splinters and a bruised tail bone from slipping off the Tavern's roof. 

It was only strange with Cole as that sometimes he could sense her back. Maybe it was the intensity of healing for such a tiny wound, maybe it was because of his own deep connection with the Fade. But sometimes he would ask about something little, maybe the weather when her youngest was born or the type of tiles on her kitchen floor. Just little glimpses. It seemed only fair as she had spent so many years viewing other's lives but it unnerved her all the same.

In the months she had been part of the Inquisition, she had grown used to these interactions with her friends even if they strayed sometimes into the uncomfortable. It was just a part of her life and mostly easy enough to ignore. 

***

Adaar hadn't meant to argue with Blackwall, but that was always where the conversation led. It didn't matter what the actual content was, it always boiled down to the exact same fight. She liked him. He liked her. Probably. He had only made it clear that with his duty it wasn't a good idea. Then he would wax poetics about how she deserved someone better which only pissed her off as he was basically a knight in shining armour who was down to earth and swore adorably and liked puppies and really could anyone do better than that?

He seemed to disagree, which was why he was walking a few paces ahead of her, trying to ignore her. Adaar stopped talking and caught up with the others. Sera and Dorian were bickering amicably and she tried to focus on them.

A near hour later, Dorian and Adaar had stopped to make camp, leaving the other two to go hunting for their supper. The mages were nearly done when they heard Sera scream.

Adaar ran, following the sound of her voice. She made it down into a clearing, nearly twisting her ankle racing down the hill. 

Sera knelt beside Blackwall, covered in his blood. Her little hands were on his chest, trying to hold a wound together.

"There was a bear," she sobbed. "I thought I had it but I jumped too close and then and then...Quizzy, help him."

Adaar instructed, "Go get to camp. Tell Dorian to boil some water and start sterilizing bandages. I'll need some sort of stretcher too. Blankets, poles. Go."

Sera ran and Adaar took her place, looking down at Blackwall. His eyes were shut and his breathing faint. He was loosing a lot of blood and quickly. She tried to pull herself together enough to start sensing his wounds. They were deep and ragged, tearing through his chest. The bear had torn through his lung, his ribs, arteries, all in attempt to reach Sera, all while Blackwall held the line. 

It was nearly beyond her skill. It was too complicated and needed to be done too quickly. Even if he had been a stranger she would have started to panic. But the fact it was the man she was falling for made her nearly break down. 

His pulse flickered against her touch and his chest wheezed as he tried to breathe. 

_"Sometimes the trauma is too much," Maryse said. "The body can only hold onto so much. Cut off a hand and the body is too damaged to remember how its veins and sinews stitched together. It hurts too much to remember how to hold another's hand or to write with a pen. Then we can only numb the pain, but we cannot do more than the body was meant to do, love. Sometimes the body hurts too much and cannot be reached. Sometimes when you ask it to remember, all it does is scream in reply that it is in pain. The body does not always listen."_

Adaar searched his body, her energy trying to stir around the torn flesh. She could feel the layers, the broken tissues, fractured ribs, and pierced lung. The body cried out and she begged it to listen, to be reasoned with. But it hollered in response.

She pleaded in a whisper, "Blackwall, stay with me."

She sensed the scar tissue near his heart, felt the claw that had cut through. Suddenly she was flooded with a memory of being in a tavern, alone and afraid. The blade barely missing and the regret, the regret that it did not slice his heart. The feeling of utter and profound sadness. Wanting to die, too cowardly to live. Regret. Bleeding on a dirty floor until someone thought to try to save him. Days in bed, hoping he could will himself to die. The little bird singing outside his window.

_"-How do you make it listen, Mama?"  
-"You grow quiet, as quiet as you can be, and then you let it speak to you."_

She felt his body stirring, as if easing around her touch. The bleeding slowed slightly and she understood. His body needed to be heard before it could listen. She saw another scar across his collarbone and she explored it. A training blade, too strong, cracking the bone. A friend, a rival. She saw the crest of Orlais on the uniform. This friend was dead, long dead now. The war took him. The bloodless war.

The delicate tissue of the lung knitted together and Blackwall took a shallow breath. She could sense the ribs threatening to break through the organ again and she encouraged the body to keep speaking.

A thin pink line, hidden in his beard. A straight razor, shaving to impress a girl. It didn't matter which one. There was always another girl. A smile. Dancing. Then she was his. Always another girl. But still lonely, still wishing for more, but no one could want someone like him for more than a distraction. 

The bleeding had stopped and the ribs started to shift, finding their place in his chest. His breathing grew a little stronger, but he was still in danger. 

Her hand moved near the site of the injury, tracing an older mark as he winced. A deeper scar, just below his breast. His padding had torn and he was bleeding. He didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything except Adaar's hands on his chest, her magic ebbing through him, and a refrain on his lips it took every ounce of his strength to hold back. I love you, I love you, and I love you. 

Tears streamed down her face but she dared not wipe them away. She kept her hands on him until the wound was sealed and his ribs settled. She sat back and started to sob, his own love still echoing so strongly through her that she could barely process her own feelings.

Blackwall opened his eyes and looked up at her with tired adoration. She kissed him softly and he sat up just enough to kiss her back. He cupped her face with bloodied hands, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

"I love you too," she said desperately. "So you're not allowed to die right now, okay?"

"I'm okay," he promised tiredly. "I'm okay."

She helped him lie back down, monitoring him until Dorian and Sera returned with a makeshift stretcher. By the time they got back up to the campsite, there was enough boiled water that Adaar could start treating the wounds. 

They didn't have a chance to talk as Sera refused to leave Blackwall's side and continued to apologize in one very long stream words. Eventually Dorian suggested that they let Blackwall rest and the young elf very reluctantly agreed to give them some space.

Adaar laid down beside him in their tent. He weakly took her hand. 

He managed to murmur, "This is why we take Cassandra with us."

Adaar realized he hadn't heard what she said, but she laughed anyways. It was true. Cassandra could take on anything in these forests with one hand tied behind her back. And possibly blindfolded.

"Next time," she promised. "Next time you get knitting and correspondence duties."

He chuckled, closing his eyes. Lulled by the poultice, he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

There would be time, she reassured herself. A time when he was not at death's door and they could speak in words how they felt, not in the jumbled images and emotions of their connection. 

But now it was time for rest.


End file.
